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Girl Friday. 2/16/2007

Dawn Patrol.









Time to take a long ride on a motorbike. Where did I put the fucking keys?

There is something about being up in the wee hours of the morning, unable to sleep. The time of day when it is cold, and the city is quiet. When nothing stirs. It is that time of night when you know that dirty deeds are done, not necessarily dirt cheap. When people die in their sleep, and the secret police come knocking on doors.

I grab my gear, and head downstairs. Bikebike was sitting there patiently, looking at me a little quizzically, because she isn’t used to being roused at 3 a.m. in the morning. I get on her, and head out. No particular destination in mind, no particular place to go. We head out onto the highway, running south. The only reason we were going south was simply because the underpass leading to the highway heading south has this what I call a “cowabunga” corner. Weird, chicaned, off camber, steep, blind, walled. Everything a corner shouldn’t be, by the standards of road design, unless you design roller coasters for a living. But if you have the testicles, this corner is capable of being taken at a speed close to the ton. If you have the testicles. You brush dangerously close the wall on the exit, and have to be careful of the fork immediately after, but if you get it right, it’s sublime.

I roll on the throttle, letting the headlights bore a hole in the darkness. I watch insects flutter in and out of the tunnel of light. Sometimes, I see a bat flash across my line of sight. I hunker down behind the altogether too small windshield, wrapping my knees to the tank, trying the absorb some warmth from the engine in the chill of the morning air. The engine is pounding, sounding smooth, not missing a beat. I start falling into that state of motorcycle zen, emptying my mind of the crap it has acummulated over the past couple of weeks. All the things that have been preying on my mind, occupying my waking thoughts, slough away.

I stop thinking about my life.

I stop thinking about my work.

I stop thinking about my problems.

I stop thinking …

I am now a part of the machine, operating purely by instinct, without conscious thought. I have managed to detach myself from me. As this happens, my mind now starts picking up random things in my psyche, looking at them, dealing with them, finding solutions and resolutions for them, putting them away. A chuckle runs through my mind at the thought of people actually paying good money, large sums of it, for psycho therapy, or religious retreats, or meditation classes, or random sex, or mind altering substances, in a bid to cope with being a participant in the human race.

I get to clear my mind, readjust my soul, and start feeling human again, for the price of a tank of fuel.